


Thaw

by UnabashedBird



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-typical language, Episode Related, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 00:10:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5518190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnabashedBird/pseuds/UnabashedBird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They get Sam back from the Cage after 11.09, and he is <i>cold</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thaw

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Deb](http://999flame999.tumblr.com/) as part of the 2015 [Bitter Sam Girl Club](http://bittersamgirlclub.tumblr.com/) Secret Santa.

Cold.

He’s so cold.

Has he ever been warm? Does he even know what that means any more? What’s it like to be anything other than so cold it’s like burning? What’s it like to have muscles relaxed by friendly heat, instead of locked up in protest because he is _cold_?

Lucifer is cold. And Sam knows better than anyone just how cold.

He wasn’t in the Cage for very long this time.

He thinks.

Relatively speaking.

But he is _so cold_.

Sam is vaguely aware of someone—Dean, probably—saying his name, saying it over and over again, like a chant or a prayer. _Sam. Sammy. Sammy. SAM. C’mon, Sammy, I’m not sure I can carry your . . . goddammit Sam, you’re a lot lighter than anyone your size has a right to be. OK Sammy we’re goin’ home now. You hear me, Sam? Gonna get you home, get you safe, get you_ warm _because Sammy, you’re a fucking icicle, you know that?_

Sam does know that. It’s just about the only think he _does_  know.

For instance, as much as he wants to believe it, he’s a long way from _knowing_  that Dean got him out somehow and is taking him back to the bunker.

After a while, the slow jolting that sure feels like being in a fireman carry on Dean’s shoulders stops, and there’s different jolting that feels like being set down and propped against the Impala, and then put in the back seat. He immediately curls in on himself as tightly as he can, an instinct that feels futile against the bone-deep cold.

Dean is still talking to him, still saying his prayer. _OK Sam, see, we made it to the car. You just hold on a second, Sammy, I think we’ve got some blankets in the trunk and . . . Jesus, Sam what is this shirt? This is an affront to nature is what this is why the hell do you still have this? How about I set this shirt on fire and you can warm yourself up that way, how about that, huh Sammy?_

There is a weight of not-cold fabric on top of him now, and the noise and vibration of the Impala around him. Dean’s litany is replaced by familiar classic rock.

Sam thinks that the odds that this is real are improving.

But he is still so cold.

He drifts in and out of consciousness until the cessation of the Impala’s rumble jolts him back to full awareness.

Or rather, as full as his awareness can be of anything other than _cold_.

But perhaps, just perhaps, he is a little less cold than he was? Sam isn’t sure, but as Dean awkwardly helps him out of the Impala, blankets and all, he thinks that the cold might be very slowly beginning to leave his bones. Skin, muscle, and all the rest of it is still frozen and locked in protest, and he tries to apologize as Dean once more hoists him onto his shoulders, but . . . well, maybe he is just hoping again.

Sam still doesn’t know whether any of this is real.

 

Dean is terrified. He _knew_  this was a terrible idea, Sam and Lucifer and the Cage _come on_ , but at the same time he never really allowed himself to imagine the possibilities. Sam coming back ice cold and unresponsive was not a possibility he would have imagined if he _had_  thought about it.

He remembers, all those years ago, Lucifer standing at a window and saying he was cold, not hot, and _shit shit shit_.

Dean’s definitely not thinking about that. No, he’s thinking about his little brother, so cold he isn’t even shivering, although Dean can feel the tension in Sam’s muscles where he has his brother slung over his shoulders.

A wave of heat hits them when Dean opens the door from the garage into the bunker proper. Cas _was_  able to figure out the thermostat and crank it up like Dean asked. Thank god—the angel means well, but sometimes he's so damn useless. Dean is very glad this isn’t one of those times.

“Dean,” Cas meets him in the hallway, looking concerned. “Is he any better?"

Dean doesn’t stop. “I don’t know. Did you do everything I asked?"

“Yes."

“Good. You make the bed, I’ll get him changed.” Cas nods and jogs off down the hall while Dean turns into Sam’s room, which, thanks to the space heaters he had Cas move in there, is stifling. Dean immediately begins to sweat, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is getting Sam warm.

He sets Sam in the desk chair, and although Sam slumps, he doesn’t fall to the floor, so Dean’s taking the win on that one.

By the time he has Sam’s shoes, socks, shirt, undershirt, and belt off, Cas has joined them with a pile of clean laundry fresh from the dryer.

“Sorry, Sammy, but this is _not_  going to be dignified,” Dean mutters. “Cas, I need your help real quick,” he says loudly enough to be heard as he unfastens Sam’s pants.

“What can I do?” Cas asks, joining them.

“Avert your eyes and lift Sam up so I can get his pants off."

“Dean, I’m not sure this is the time for modesty."

“Just _do_  it, Cas."

Cas sighs and goes to stand behind Sam’s chair. He wraps his arms around Sam’s chest, turns his head to the side, and lifts. Dean makes the change as quickly as possible while looking at what he’s doing as little as he can: jeans and fancy-ass boxers off in one go, clean boxers and flannel pants still warm from the dryer on in another.

“OK, set him down and make the bed,” Dean tells Cas once he has everything adjusted. The warm pants are followed by an undershirt, the green version of the red plaid Sam was wearing when he left to talk to Lucifer _dammit Sam_ , a pair of thick wool socks, one of the robes they found in the bunker, and a knit hat that comes down around Sam’s ears.

“Now, Sammy, I know you think these things are stupid and a little creepy, but you’re gonna have to suck it up because they are also really damn warm, which is what you need right now,” Dean tells him as he secures the robe.

Sam mutters indistinctly. “Sorry, little brother, didn’t quite catch that, but I’ll just assume you were trying to bitch at me and take it as a good sign.” More muttering, and Dean grins, relief washing through him. They’re gonna get through this, just like they always do. He only half-carries Sam the few feet from the chair to his bed, then lifts his legs up and tucks him in like he’s five and fell asleep on the couch waiting for Dad to come home. Dean and Cas heap pretty much every clean blanket in the bunker on top of Sam, and by the time they’re done the sweat is pouring off of Dean and Sam has finally started to shiver, which Cas tells Dean means he’s warming up.

“I’ll watch him, Dean,” Cas volunteers. “The heat doesn’t affect me nearly as much as it does you, and I am not certain Sam will appreciate waking up to a room that reeks of your sweat."

Dean glares and turns his head to sniff himself and _whoa_ , yeah, OK, Cas might be right about this one.

He closes the door behind him and goes to lower the thermostat for the rest of the bunker before hitting the shower.

 

Sam returns to full awareness slowly. _Not cold_  is the first thing he notices. He’s not cold. _He’s not cold_. In fact, he’d go so far as to say that he’s warm, and that he is surrounded by warm softness. But mostly, and most importantly, he is not cold.

Next he becomes aware of sound. He thinks perhaps it’s background noise of some sort. No, wait . . . He opens his eyes, blinking as they adjust.

He’s in his room in the bunker. Probably. Assuming this isn’t a trick of Lucifer’s, he is in his room in the bunker. And . . . he raises himself up just a little to confirm it, yes, the TV is on, and--

“Sam!” The figure sitting next to the bed turns towards him, reaching out to touch his shoulder but stopping when Sam flinches away.

“Cas, are you watching _Orphan Black_?” Sam asks hoarsely.

“Yes,” Cas says, grabbing the remote and pausing the episode. “I . . . I remembered how, last time you were rescued from the Cage, you were initially uncertain as to whether you were really out. I thought, perhaps, the presence of something that did not yet exist when Lucifer was imprisoned would reassure you."

“Oh. That’s, uh, that’s a great idea Cas. Thank you. That . . . that helps a lot, actually."

“I am glad to hear it,” Cas says, meeting Sam’s eyes.

Gratitude wells up in Sam then: Cas’ quiet presence, understanding and not pushing, doing everything he can to prove to Sam that being safe and warm in his room is reality, is exactly what he needed. Impulsively, he extricates one of his arms from under the pile of blankets and reaches out to clasp Cas’ hand. “Thank you,” he whispers.

Cas nods, and squeezes Sam’s hand.

“Are you warm enough now that I could perhaps return the temperature controls to your usual settings?” Cas asks after a moment. “I imagine it would put more strain on your body if our efforts to warm you up resulted in you then becoming overheated."

“Oh. Yeah, yeah, good idea,” Sam says, noticing the glowing space heaters for the first time. Cas gets up and turns them off as well as lowering the thermostat; when he sits back down he pours a glass of water from the pitcher by the bed and hands it to Sam.

“You should drink. Go slow, though."

Sam nods, hauling himself into a sitting position and following Cas’ advice with effort, not having realized how thirsty he is until the water touches his lips.

Once he finishes the water, Sam takes a moment to take a proper inventory of himself. He’s in his bed in his room in the bunker, under what looks like every clean blanket in the whole place. He pulls the hat he’s wearing off his head and stares at it a moment, wondering where Dean found it, before setting it aside and combing his fingers through his hair. There are thick socks on his feet, and he’s wearing flannel pants instead of jeans. He looks down at his torso, and that’s when he realizes he’s wearing one of those damn robes Dean loves so much. And yeah, OK, it’s warm, but _still_. Principle of the thing.

And he’s warm. Warm and whole and comfortable and _warm_.

Dean comes in, carrying a tray, as Sam finishes his personal inventory. “Hey, you’re awake!” Dean says when he sees Sam sitting up in bed.

Sam eyes him cautiously. The tray, which holds a steaming bowl of what smells like soup or stew and a steaming mug of what Sam hopes is tea, is a sign that, at least for the moment, Dean is in caregiver mode and thus won’t be reading Sam the riot act about what happened for at least a little while longer.

Then again, it’s Dean, and his mood could turn at any time.

Dean sets the tray carefully in Sam’s lap before sitting down on the other side of the bed from Cas. “OK, we’ve got stew with too many vegetables in it and some of that girly herbal tea you like. What’re we watching?"

Sam darts a glance at Cas, who looks at him and shrugs.

“What?” Dean asks.

Sam slowly turns to him. “I guess . . . I guess I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop."

Dean glares. “One thing at a time, Sam. Let’s get you well first, and then we can talk about what happened."

Sam nods. “I said no,” he murmurs to the tray, picking up his spoon.

“What?” Dean asks, and Sam can feel his brother’s eyes boring into him.

“I said no,” he repeats, louder, though still looking down at the tray rather than at Dean or Cas. “Lucifer . . . he wanted me to give him a ride out. In exchange for helping us with the Darkness. I said no. I thought . . . I thought maybe you’d want to know that. That I said no. That I was going to keep saying no, no matter what he did to me. Just so you know. I know I’m a screw-up, I know—"

He stops talking when Dean’s hand lands on one shoulder and Cas’ on the other. “Of course you said no, Sam,” Cas says, calm and assured. “You’re strong, and in this you have always done what is right, no matter the cost to you. You’re strong, and I have faith in your strength."

Dean just squeezes his shoulder, and Sam takes that as the affirmation of Cas’ words for which he hopes it’s intended.

Sam sniffles, and Dean and Cas remove their hands and give Sam a moment to collect himself. He picks up the spoon and takes a few bites of stew, wiping surreptitiously at his eyes as he does so.

“Wow, Dean, this stew is so good I might actually forgive you for putting me in this creepy robe,” he says eventually, smirking at his brother.

Dean grins. “C’mon, Sam, you know you love it."

“You wish, asshat."

“Hey, did the job, didn’t it?"

“Maybe,” Sam concedes.

“Maybe my ass,” Dean grumbles good-naturedly. “So is somebody gonna tell me what we’re watching, or what?"

“ _Orphan Black_ ,” Cas says, since Sam had just taken a large bite of stew.

“So hit play already,” Dean says, and Cas does. After a moment, Dean grins again and says, “Oh, awesome, this is the one where Vic the dick—"

Sam cuts him off by smacking him in the leg. “Dude, don’t spoil it for Cas."

Dean makes a face. “ _Don’t spoil it for Cas_ ,” he mimics, and Sam shakes his head and smiles.

He is warm, he is home, and, for at least as long as it takes to eat his stew, drink his tea, and finish watching the episode with Dean and Cas, he is safe. And after what he just went through, he couldn’t ask for more.


End file.
